I Can Dream, Can't I?
by Paper Plane Brigade
Summary: Peggy was not the first woman to see Steve's true potential. But she was the most brave, authoritative, and frankly, appealing. Steve and Bucky make a friend in an outspoken Brooklyn Jew, giving the boys even more of a reason to fight for people like her lost to the Nazis. But when she confesses her love to Steve...well, he has no idea what the hell to do.
1. The Birthday

**A/N: **I didn't think I'd find a way to fit an OC into anything Avengers-related since Darcy exists in canon. But oh, I found one. Hope you guys enjoy; went kind of insane writing this, so that might show in the work, but eh, every story needs a good dose of crazy. I own nothing and no one except what you don't recognize. R&R if you're up to it! Title comes from the Andrews Sisters song of the same name; check it out, it's lovely, from the era, and pretty much the fic's theme song.

* * *

Steve couldn't really say that he envisioned his twenty-first birthday to go any particular way. He had neither the money nor the strength to have some full, fancy night on the town – and he wasn't one for all that glamour, anyway. Then again, he had no money for _anything_; not even for a candle he could just hold in his hands, light, and blow out. Not that it mattered; every year, Bucky would take them to the roof of their building and watch the Independence Day fireworks. The view wasn't great – other buildings tended to block the lower half of the sky, but Steve still found them amazing. In the back of his mind, he liked to think that they were not only being set off for America, but for him – by someone out there other than Bucky who cared about him. He always repressed the thought soon enough and chose instead to be humbled by the magnificent display, but it always festered.

He did have a feeling that this birthday would be different than the rest, so he wasn't surprised when he was told to meet Bucky on a street corner instead of outside their tenement. What _was _surprising was the several dollar bills his friend was gripping.

"Where'd you get that money?" Steve's voice was both accusatory and incredulous. Bucky smirked.

"Don't worry about it; they're pennies from heaven. What we need to be worrying about is getting plenty of cheap booze down our gullets." He took him by the shoulder and pulled him toward the grocery store across the street, the only establishment open nearby.

"You do that all the time. And when you offer me, I say no."

"Steve, you're legal tonight! Prohibition is long over; exercise your rights." He rose his free arm to the sky. "You're not allowed to refuse."

"Well..." Steve mused as they entered the shop. Bucky led him right to the selection of alcohol. The stuff had never really appealed to him, and someone had once told him that if he had enough, it could seriously harm his frail body. He didn't think it was worth the apparently invigorating rush getting drunk gave to people. Still, it might be interesting to try it – just this once. Before he knew it, Bucky had a bottle of whiskey in his hand and was putting it on the unoccupied counter.

"Aw, come on. We gotta get up to see the lights. They're even better when you're buzzed, Steve, trust me." He impatiently shoved his free hand in his pocket. Steve stood to his left, studying the bottle.

"Hold your horses, fella," came a slightly raspy but feminine voice from above their heads. Heavy footsteps stomped down the stairs in the opposite corner of the room. When they looked over, a plump girl was coming towards them, wiping her hands on her wrinkled dress. Her shoes were massive brown loafers that were far too large for her feet, but she managed to shuffle to the cash register without too much trouble. "Well, fell-as." She brushed some mousy brown hair out of her face and wiped her large nose on the back of her hand.

Bucky pulled his hand out of his pocket and dropped the money on the table, smirking. "What's a broad like you doing inside on the fourth of July?" He said smoothly. Steve couldn't tell if he was legitimately flirting with her or just trying to score a discount.

She rose a bushy brow and shrugged. "Got to work. 'Sides, the fireworks hurt my eyes." She picked up the bottle and examined the price, then took the money. She rose her other brow and looked confusedly at Steve. "_You're_ twenty-one?"

He stiffened a tad. "What makes you think I'm not?"

She shrugged and smiled slightly. "Don't know. Must be that adorable baby face." He instantly flushed and didn't dare to look at Bucky's reaction. Without another word or look, she put the money in the register and pushed the bottle towards them. "Enjoy your _Independence Day_, boys. Be sure to tell your friends about the only corner store open on a national holiday." Her hands dropped to her sides as she slammed the cash drawer closed.

"You don't sound very enthusiastic," said Steve as Bucky picked up the bottle. The girl paused, sighed, and shrugged again.

"I'm not. People come here looking for opportunity, but ya can't even really get opportunity unless you're a man, white, and already rich." She went over to straighten out the shelves.

Steve cringed – although it was a barely visible gesture. "It's still safer than Europe right now."

She snorted. "Don't I know it; I could be there now if my parents didn't come here from Poland before I was even around. But, yeah, there's no man turning everyone he rules into slaves or an army of men against people who've done nothing wrong...but it feels the same down here." She motioned towards the street outside. She looked him up and down, and Steve prepared himself for another storm of judgment. "I'm sure you know all about dangerous it can be out there."

"Er...well, I suppose. But it's not like the government itself is beating me up in a back alley. It's possible to stand up to a pathetic bully."

She looked him right in the eyes – her pupils cold and grey – then shook her head.

"Boy, you're sure a dreamer, Mister..."

"Steve Rogers." He extended his hand to her and smiled. "And this is James Barnes."

"Call me Bucky." He went from rubbing the back of his neck to giving her a little wave.

"Moira Shilsky." She grinned at him and shook his hand eagerly, her palms rough and dry. "Can't say I've ever had a customer be so nice."

"That's just who Steve is," said Bucky, coming up next to him and slinging his arm over his shoulders. "He's like a walking handshake."

"You say that like it's a problem." She finally let go of his hand. "So, are you just celebrating America's independence? 'Cause I think a couple bottles of any ol' giggle water would suffice for that."

Bucky hugged him closer, looking proud. "He's legal today."

Moira's face instantly lit up. "No foolin'? How was the cake?"

Steve blushed and looked down. "Yeah. Uh, I haven't had cake; haven't for many years, actually. It's fine, though, I get to spend the day with my best friend and that's good enough for me."

"Ah, Steve, not in front of the girl!" Bucky locked his arm around his neck and gave it a light squeeze. Moira just looked on with her mouth slightly agape.

"...You didn't have _cake_? Wait here." She bounded up the stairs, losing a shoe on the way. Steve and Bucky exchanged a look.

"This is already panning out to be one of your better birthdays. Alchie, a girl, and from the looks of it, cake."

Steve blushed again, an even deeper shade of red. "I should have stopped her...but she went up so fast." He considered something for a moment. "Actually..." he went to the bottom of the stairs. "You really don't have to do anything, Miss Shilsky!" Oh, this was so impolite, calling up to a place where customers were so obviously not allowed, but he felt so bad. He could hear Bucky chuckled, so he turned around and gave him a hard stare.

"Oh come on, be flattered!" He urged, twisting the bottlecap left and right. "Even I didn't get you something of real substance, which is what you really need."

"What makes you think she's getting me food? She could just be getting a candle or something. She could even be putting together some kind of prank to smoke us out of the store." His face slightly fell.

Bucky smiled slightly and shook his head. "You punk, she's a Brooklyn Jew; most of what they do is make and eat food. I mean, look at the size of her."

Steve was about to retort when a string of frantic, muffled Yiddish broke out over their heads, followed by a loud groan, a plate hitting the floor and shattering, and then more Yiddish in that same high-pitched voice. Then Moira ran back down the stairs holding a square block – so big that it filled the entirety of her palm – of plain brown cake on a napkin. "I got you the last of the pound cake. I hope it's good enough; my ma makes great food, my brother and I just attack it every time. Oh right, it's Kosher; I hope that's okay."

Steve could barely even sputter a response. He couldn't remember the last time a stranger had done something so kind. She had taken something from her own possessions and given it to someone she had just met a few minutes earlier. The sight of it was so..._humbling_. A nudge from Bucky pushed him forward as Moira looked at him expectantly.

"I...thank you so much. This is way too nice."

"Bah." She shoved the cake at him. "You can't have a birthday if there isn't cake."

He smiled. "Well then, I'm a lot younger than I'm supposed to be."

She laughed heartily; a loud, bellowing sound. She stopped suddenly. "Oh god, you weren't kidding earlier either." Her eyes widened. "I'll get you the whole cake."

"No no no, please don't; this is more than enough." Not for Bucky, and he was probably going to pay for that later, but she deserved the rest of her cake.

"Well, ooookay. 'More than enough'; hah. Not even for tonight, lil' Scamp. I think I know a thing or two about food if I got like this." She patted her hip. "You better come in for the rest sometime."

"Will do." Bucky started to push Steve out. "You have yourself a good Fourth of July, Moira."

"You too, boys." She tipped an imaginary hat to them. "Happy birthday, Scamp. Steve. Mmm, not sure which one I like better. Many happy returns."

An hour later, atop their apartment building, Bucky was drunkenly lumbering about, shouting obscenities and and things about patriotism. Steve was buzzed off only a few gulps, and that was enough for him; sitting cross-legged on the ground and nibbling on the pound cake was fulfilling enough for him.

"We gotta go back, man," Bucky slurred, pantomiming throwing darts at the fireworks. "I bet she'll give us free stuff."

Steve smiled a little. "Oh come on, we don't want to cost her business."

"Tch, she's doing just fine." He adopted a dreamy expression. "'Sides, she promised the cake." He bent down and stole a chunk of the slice.

"Well, you can have it all." Steve brought his knees to his chest and rested his chin on them. He craned his head, trying to see the fireworks going off between the buildings. Bucky groaned and plopped down next to him.

"I've had all my birthday cakes – even if they were just bottles of alcohol that I just called cake." He leaned on him and nudged his shoulder. "You deserve yours, man."

Steve sighed as a whole line of white fireworks went off simultaneously over the buildings, sparkling and cascading down the sky. Finally, he felt himself fully relax. "Maybe..."


	2. The Shilskys

**A/N: **Just a heads-up that there's some very offensive language in this chapter, but only once. I hate the word with a burning passion, but it was appropriate for the a-holes in this chapter.

* * *

The boys did go back the next day for the cake. They kept going back once or twice a week for a few months, and by the time two years had gone by, they were there everyday. She gave them discounts, and eventually whatever they wanted at no charge, even food from her own kitchen. Whenever Steve insisted she didn't have to, she just patted his shoulder and said "we gotta fatten you up, Scamp". The pet name could bother him sometimes, but she called him that so affectionately that it became just as normal as his real name. Outside of that, however, she never made one comment or cast one snide glance at his tiny body – such a welcome change. As soon as they left the shop, however, the neighborhood jerks still existed and he still got the crap beaten out of him.

One particular afternoon, he was making his way to Shilsky's Grocery alone when he was shoved into the alley across the street. He was punched square in the face by a guy who's lip he miraculously busted the previous week (he stole a set of jacks from a little kid and threw them in the dumpster, for god's sake) while his buddy looked on, cackling.

"Think you can pop my lip, you little shit?" he barked, his nostrils flaring and eyes blazing.

Steve moved his jaw back and forth, and even though he felt a sharp, stabbing pain, he smirked. "I suppose so." He swung a weak punch at his chest, but the other guy leaped forward and pinned his arm back. Steve grit his teeth and shut his eyes as the first guy delivered a sharp blow to his gut. As his knees buckled and the pain exploded throughout his middle, he couldn't help but wish he had gone for the trash can lid shield first.

The soles of someone's shoes scuffed across the street. "Wh-what do you think you're doing?!" came Moira's voice, shriller than normal. "You got no business here!" She pushed past them and hooked an arm under his, lifting him up. "The hell did he do to ya that wasn't deserved?"

"Who ask you, kike whale?" The first guy barked. He slapped her clear across the face, and without even thinking, Steve connected his fist to his nose. As blood began to gush out, the second guy advanced, but Moira grabbed him by the shirt and shoved him into the wall.

"Get outta here, the both of you." Moira's eyes were the coldest Steve had ever seen them, and he nearly shuddered. "I won't hesitate to haul my cash register and bash you both in your fat heads with it."

"We better listen to her; she could sit on us and flatten us." The second guy slurred, slowly pulling himself away from the brick, his tone rife with sarcasm. He and his friend cackled like the brainless hyenas they were, and with one last threatening gaze directed at Steve, they scurried off.

"Well. We make a swell team, huh?" Moira fidgeted, pulling on the skirt of her dress and digging her shoes into the ground. She finally turned back to him, cupping his chin and turning his jaw to the side. "You okay? I've seen you come in with some nasty marks, but it's even worse now that I see where they come from."

"Are _you_ okay?" Steve's eyes went to the large, reddening mark on her cheek, and his mind raged over it once again. "I'm so sorry, you – I shouldn't have gotten you involved. I would never-"

"Oh, stuff it. If I hadn't come along, you woulda been in pieces." She patted his shoulder. "You're too noble, y'know."

"No one should be treated this way. _Especially_ not a dame." His eyes went surprisingly dark. "What they were saying to you..."

She chuckled. "I get that all the time; don't let it bother me. The world's just jealous of how we _save_ our money." She laughed harder, but fidgeted again. "I'm no dame. I get into fights, I get hit; it's all a gas, really. You're a gentleman, though. And you know what gentlemen do? They talk. Or sing it out."

He blushed despite himself. "Nah."

"Yeah..." She brushed her arms off. "Just imagine how much worse the battlefield is." She gave him a pointed look.

He frowned slightly and began to stagger out of the alley. Well, of course it was worse. That didn't mean he didn't have to fight, and she should have known that from all he told her about his desire to enlist. "Whoa whoa whoa." She came up behind him and caught him by the hips. His whole face turned red. "You're in no shape to walk anywhere alone. Let's get you up to my place." She pushed him across the street and into the store. She helped him up the stairs into an avocado green hallway. She opened the first door on the right to reveal a small, dimly lit living room. A stocky man with deep wrinkles sat on the small couch, deeply focused on the book in his hands.

"Pa," Moira began, settling Steve in front of the wooden coffee table. "This is Steve."

He looked up slowly, but when his eyes rested on Steve, he smiled. "Ah, Steven. We've been wondering when you'd come to visit us ancient folk." As he lifted himself up, Steve gave Moira a questioning look.

"So what if I've mentioned you and Bucky a few times over the years...or a lotta times?" She shrugged innocently, her cheeks pink. Mr. Shilsky came around and shook his hand readily.

"Morris Shilsky, pleasure to meet you, my boy." He gave his forearm a pat, and his eyes widened. "My, you are a tiny one." Steve looked uncomfortable. "Well, compared to myself." He poked his protruding gut. He gazed at the floor, and put on the ratty fedora that rested on the armchair beside him. "I'll go manage the store for awhile, keep an eye out for your other boy. You introduce Steven to your mother." His feet pounded on the floor as he made his way out, and as Steve stuffed his hands in the pockets of his jacket, he noticed something.

"Aren't the shoes he's wearing the ones you wore on the fourth of July?"

Moira blinked, and thought about it for a moment. "Ah, yeah. I don't really like wearing shoes in the house, but whenever a customer comes in after a lull, I gotta get down there quick and I gotta have shoes on. So I usually just put on whatever pair's closest to the door. Sometimes they're mine, sometimes they're Pa's. Ma always keeps hers on and my brother Michael isn't around to take his shoes off, so..." She shrugged. "Can't believe you remember that."

Steve smiled slightly. "Where's your brother?"

She rose a brow. "Didn't I tell ya? He's in the war." Her lips puckered over the word. "Anyways, let's go see my ma. Her English isn't real good – even though she's been here 'bout thirty years – so be patient with her. But I don't have to tell _you_ that."

She head him into the equally small kitchen. An older, svelte woman with a white cloth wrapped around her head slaved over a boiling pot on the decrepit stove. "Ma," Moira said gently, going over to hr and putting her hand on her back. "I brought Steve up."

The woman looked back at him slowly and smiled uneasily. "You sure you want to bring a _goye_ into the house?" She said, her tone hushed. Steve wasn't sure what the word meant, but from the way Moira pouted, it wasn't the most endearing term.

"Ma, this is _Steve_; the nice boy." She motioned to him with an encouraging smile. "He's just here for something to, uh, make his shiner feel better."

Mrs. Shilsky shook her head and lapsed into even quieter Yiddish, which caused Moira to groan. "Ma, I'm no good at Yiddish..." She motioned to him. "Look at him. He's not here to hurt anybody. _He's_ the one who's hurt. Let him sit a bit."

She studied him for a moment, before going to the small icebox. She handed him a raw slab of meat and continued to stare. "You...need meat on those bones." Her voice was suddenly filled with warmth, and she returned to the stove.

Steve shifted in place, pressing the meet to his jaw. "I'm sorry I put her on edge..." He frowned.

Moira swatted the air and pushed him into one of the chairs at the table. "Don't worry about it. Anyone who isn't Jewish makes feels nervous. And even then, Jews make her plenty nervous too." She sat down next to him and folded her hands on the table. "But she's making ya food now, so that's a good sign."

He sighed, taking the meat off. "Oh, she doesn't have to go to the trouble, I'm just-"

"Hey, keep that on your face, Scamp." She leaned forward and took it from him, pressing it back against his face. "It's already got you all over it; might as well use it 'til it can't be used anymore."

"I've been in much worse scrapes where I've gone without any help. I'm _fine_, Moira."

"Stuff it and take the beef." Despite her harsh tone, she couldn't help but crack a smile.

Steve was tempted to offer her the meat for her cheek, but she dove right into a lengthy rant about all the fat-heads in Brooklyn; he couldn't distract her in any way without completely throwing her off and getting her anger directed at him. A half hour later, she was still ranting, but the food was finished – a savory brisket and potatoes – and her parents had joined them.

"I kept waiting down there for...Bucky, is it? None of the young people came by." said Mr. Shilsky, shoveling a large amount of potatoes onto his plate.

She shoved a large piece of meat into her mouth. "Wouldn't be surprised if he's down at the enlistment place." She frowned as she chewed.

Mr. Shilsky looked briefly forlorn, but quickly regained his smile. "Oh, your friend wants to fight in the army?" The question was directed at Steve.

He wiped the corners of his mouth with his paper napkin. "We both do, sir."

Moira's fork clattered to the plate, while Mr. Shilsky's eyes widened. "Really?" His voice wasn't judgmental at all; just surprised.

"My father was in the 107th Infantry. I hope to serve there."

He nodded, eyeing the boy's barely touched meal. "Well, that's an honorable reason to want to go, I suppose." He looked at Moira, who was trying to keep her composure. Mrs. Shilsky was just staring at everyone's' food, only understanding a few of the words.

"Well, I also want to defend the country, and all the innocent people who've been wronged by the actions of the Axis Powers." Steve's voice took on a determined, authoritative quality. He had never been more impressive.

Suddenly, Mrs. Shilsky had her hand atop his. "Bless you." She smiled warmly. Steve smiled back, but looked at Moira questioningly. She didn't look to be up to answering, however, with her hand on the table and her chin resting on it.

"Our son is in the army. We have...family in Poland still." Mr. Shilsky ran a hand over his face. "Lord knows if they're still there."

Steve felt something inside him sink. He had overheard many of the residents in his neighborhood lamenting over their family in Europe, being tortured and prosecuted just for practicing Judaism. Never before had he seen those raw, painful emotions on those people's' faces; not until now. How their eyes glazed over with both the fond memories of their relatives that they might never get back and with the images of them being shoved around by soldiers without compassion or humanity. How the corners of their mouths fell no matter how positive the subject was before. How no matter how hard they were trying to stay strong, their shoulders slumped at least a bit and folded into themselves. Seeing that now...he could honestly say that it was one of the most melancholy sights he had ever seen. And being a sick orphan, he has seen _a lot_. "That's...truly awful," he finally said. "I hope all of your family makes it out fine."

Mrs. Shilsky studied him again, rubbing her stubby finger along her chapped lip. "You got the heart of a Jew."

He blushed again. "I'm Christian, ma'am, so I wouldn't know..." He bowed his head and reluctantly ate a few forkfuls of potato.

"Ya care," Moira said suddenly, biting on the handle of her fork. "We care. We don't know much 'bout other religions, but we seem to be the nicest." She shrugged. "It isn't just about the country with you." Although her tone was practically indifferent, she was giving him this intense, yet indiscernible stare, causing him to grow even redder.

The mood picked up once Mr. Shilsky began to talk about the grocery store and the table lapsed into conversation about their day to day lives. It took a lot of coaxing for Steve to open up, nut once he did, he was surprised by how easy he found it to talk to them. Mr. Shilsky always found a positive way to respond to everything, and while Mrs. Shilsky didn't say or understand much, she was always smiling at him and patting his hand or arm. He hadn't so felt so welcome by a family in...well, ever. After he managed to eat half his plate, he stepped into the living room with Moira.

"I knew you'd be a star with 'em." She smirked, crossing her arms over her chest. "You _sure_ you're not Jewish?"

A thought entered into his head, and he couldn't stop it from spilling out. "I need to go to war, Moira. I need to fight for your family. For _everyone_ who's been-"

He was cut off by a tight, nearly suffocating hug from her. She never hugged him; she always joked that she'd crush him if she tried. "Okay," she breathed, her voice quiet. "You do that." Anyone else would say that as if they didn't believe in him. But her voice? Full of complete faith.


	3. The Expo

So he tried to go. Four times, in fact, in four different locations. No matter where he claimed he was from, he was always classified as too frail to serve. He knew guys who'd kill to be classified as 4F, who desperately wanted to avoid the draft. He would gladly give one of those guys the chance to stay behind if he could just _go_ in his place. Steve had never asked for anything in his entire life; why was he being denied the one thing he wanted if it was only to serve others?

After his latest rejection, Steve decided to head to a theater nearby to watch the latest cartoon reel and take his mind off everything. He had a few nickels to spare from helping around Shilsky's (he had only done it once or twice and believed he had barely done anything, but Mr. Shilsky insisted in a couple of dollars and some food. Why not spend it on something recreational for once?

Unfortunately, the theater also screened propaganda reels and public service announcements urging people to help any way they could on the home front, including finding work in factories and donating metal. At the sight of the little boy wheeling around his little wagon full of metal on the screen, Steve saw his fate flash before his eyes. Laboring over building weapons, ships, and aircrafts for others to use, or – god forbid – becoming that child. Confined to simply sending away all his metal goods – which he didn't even have much of in the first place. And then what? Continuing his sorry life, only now without his oldest friend?

He was pulled from his thoughts when the jerk sitting in the row below him thought it would be funny to interrupt with his demands for cartoons. With everything else that had gone wrong that day, Steve _had_ to get him to stop; he had such a nerve being so disrespectful. And just like every time he tried to do some good by standing up to bullies, he got himself hauled into the alley and a punch to the face. He went right for the trash can lid right away, though, so he bought himself more time before he went down.

"You just don't know when to give up, do ya?" The jerk taunted, his eyes flaming.

"I can do this all day." Steve attempted a swing, but the jerk caught it and punched him right in the nose with his other hand, causing Steve to fall face-first into the trash cans.

"Hey!" He recognized Bucky's voice and he relaxed slightly, and felt a pocket of wind over his shoulder when the jerk was pulled away. "Pick on someone your own size."

"How's about twice your size?" Moira bellowed, the sharp _slap_ of her back-handing the jerk across the face piercing his eardrums. The jerk swung a punch; he missed, and Bucky took the opportunity to lay a punch of his own. As the jerk knew he was in for it now, he ran and managed to get out – but not before Bucky landed a swift kick on his sorry rear.

Steve attempted to lift himself up, but Moira rushed to his side and helped him. Bucky chuckled. "Sometimes, I think you like getting punched."

Moira watched as Steve shook out his hands and wiped his bloody nose with his coat sleeve – she handed him a handkerchief, but he shook his head. "I had him on the ropes."

"_I_ know you did," she insisted, smoothing down the surprisingly nice tweed dress she wore. She also wore makeup; he had never seen her wear any before. "He doesn't."

"Then you wouldn't have been smelling the garbage up-close." He smirked. "Where'd you meet him?"

"The movie theater." Steve craned his head in the direction of it, as if it were obvious.

Bucky bent over and picked up Steve's enlistment cards. "How many times is this?"

"Four." Moira bit her lip. "Oh...that wasn't supposed to be answered."

"You're from Paramus now? You know it's illegal to lie on the enlistment form." He scoffed at the card. "And seriously, Jersey?"

"Jersey's nice – got family friends down there." Moira wrung her hands together, eying his uniform.

"I'd rather go to war than live in Jersey." Bucky tugged on his jacket and smirked.

Steve gave him a strange look. "You get your orders?"

Moira smiled uneasily and scurried to Bucky's side, who was smiling proudly. "The one-oh-seventh. Sergeant James Barnes, shipping out for England first thing tomorrow."

Steve's heart clenched. He had known Bucky was going off for a long time now. He had always just accepted it; after all, if he couldn't go, then at least his best friend could serve for the both of them. But...the 107th. His _father's_ infantry. Where he was supposed to be. He wasn't about to have an asthma attack, but for just a moment, he found it hard to breathe. He looked down, attempting to catch his breath and shaking his head. "I should be going."

He felt Moira's hand on the small of his back easing him up, and squeezing his shoulder with her other hand. "I know, Scamp. But think about it; you'll get to stay here with me, and Bucky won't be around to spoil things or eat all of your food." She stuck her nose up at him.

Bucky put his hand to his heart. "Ah, Moi, is that really what you think? The war just couldn't take me soon enough, huh? But gee, I will miss your ma's cooking – you only started taking me up to your place a month ago." He took both of them by the shoulders. "Come on, man. S'my last night. We gotta get you cleaned up."

"Why, where are we going?"

Bucky took his arm off Moira's shoulders to hand him that day's newspaper, which was folded on an ad for the World of Tomorrow Expo. "The future."

After a quick wash-up, the trio went to the event and were surrounded by thousands of people and technological marvels that none of them could have ever dreamed of. Bucky and Moira were huddled together, pointing out every odd and amazing thing and making jokes about some of the fellow spectators. As enthralled as Steve was, he couldn't bring himself not to mope. Bucky took one look at him and sighed. "I don't see what the problem is. You're about to the last eligible man in New York. You know there's three and a half million women here."

"Well, I'd settle for just one," Steve said earnestly. Moira cleared her throat, then started choking, causing the boys to stop and look at her worriedly.

"Sorry," she rasped, giving Steve a particularly strange look. "The air in here's just so...fresh. M'not used to it. Mmm, yes, ladies. One lady."

Bucky rose a brow, then looked ahead and smiled. "Good thing I took care of that." He waved at three figures who stood by a large statue.

"Hey, Bucky!" One of the women called, waving back. As the group walked closer, they were revealed to be two women and a man in uniform.

Moira gripped Bucky's arm. "Uh, you didn't tell me you were setting us _up_." She dug her nails into his arm, which he thankfully managed to pry off.

"Well, surprise. It's my last night in the states; we're gonna have some fun." He squeezed her arm more affectionately. "Besides, he's one of the guys who's going off with me; good guy, told him all about you."

Steve looked exasperated. "What'd you tell her about _me_?"

"Only the good stuff." When they approached their dates, Bucky took the brunette in his arms and kissed her cheek. Steve stood awkwardly in front of the blond and Moira crossed her arms and took an almost defensive stance. Neither of their dates looked very impressed.

"Elaine's mine for the night." The brunette giggled. "Steve, this is Lilian, and Moira, this is Grant."

Steve eagerly extended his hand and smiled shyly. "It's a pleasure to meet you." Lilian looked down her nose at him and very loosely shook his hand. Neither Moira nor Grant made a move to be cordial.

"Alright then. Look, the main presentation's starting."

Steve went to buy some peanuts as the other five pushed into the crowd to see Howard Stark show off his hover car. This was already panning out to be just like every romantic endeavor of his (tch, romantic _attempt_). The women he knew could be just as cruel as the men; laughing at him, shouting about why they'd ever go out with a shrimp like him. Even worse, they'd just stare him down, scoffing and silently judging him. The few nice ones regarded him with exaggerated kindness out of pity, but that was only a little better. Even if he was the last bachelor in Brooklyn, the women would rather wait for the desirable men to come home.

With a bag of hot, salty nuts in hand, he turned around to see Moira shifting her weight from foot to foot. "Hiya," she said, dejected, "I can see your date's going well."

"About as well as you'd expect. How about yours?"

"Hah!" She slapped her hands together. "When he thought I wasn't listenin', he says to Bucky 'you didn't tell me she was so portly; how come you guys get the pretty ones?' Bucky took him outside. I'm not sure what's happening, but I'm pretty sure he's missing some teeth now."

"He's sorely mistaken." Steve's voice suddenly grew stone-cold and certain. "You're a...swell dame, Moira." He flushed and focused on the peanuts. When he looked up again, her face seemed even redder than his.

"Nah." She waved him off. "But...thanks for sayin' so."

"No, really. You're the best." At the look of anguish that suddenly appeared on her face, he tossed a peanut into his mouth to prevent himself from saying anything else that would make her feel so bad. They made their way back to Bucky and the girls without a word. He held the bag out to Lillian, but she just scoffed and went back to swooning over Stark. With a sigh, he held the bag out to Moira. She gratefully took a handful of nuts while he looked around for something else that would pique his interest. When his eyes caught sight of the recruitment station, he didn't even think before he started to make his way over.

"Scamp!" Moira barreled after him and hooked her arm through his. "Let's go see that silly-looking robot." They still walked in the direction of the station.

"Maybe later."

She finally stopped them. "I know what you're doing. Even if it was a good idea to try to enlist again...could you handle being rejected again?"

"I won't know unless I try." He even surprised himself with how desperate he sounded. "This could be my last chance. Sure, it's not a good idea – heck, it's a terrible idea. But it's the right thing."

She was clearly frustrated, her shoulders sagging. She huffed and let him go. "Go. Good luck to ya."

With a push, he continued his trek. Once inside, he was devoid of the apprehension he suffered all the previous attempts. Although that picture and mirror gimmick did _wonders_ for his confidence.

Until Bucky shoved him off the light switch, chuckling. "Come on, you're kinda missing the point of a...double-and-a-half date." He patted Moira's shoulder, who was trying not to smile. "We're taking the girls dancing."

"I never said I wanted to go." She pursed her lips. "But we all know Buck is gonna get mighty ossified, so I might as well be the designated home-taker."

Steve smiled at them. "You go ahead. I'll catch up with you."

Bucky pulled him out into the crowded hall. "You're really going to do this again?"

"Well, it's a fair. I'm gonna try my luck."

"As who, Steve from Ohio? They'll catch you, Or worse, they'll actually take you."

Things just escalated from there. Bucky tried to get it into his head that he could do just as much to help the country on the home front, while Steve just refuted everything he said by bringing up rights, responsibilities, and the like. Moira tried to get them to "stuff it" when it started, but resorted to just letting them get everything out.

"Hey, Sarge! Are we going dancing?" Lilian called. Huh; she was content to just forget about Steve, it seemed.

Bucky turned to them. "Yes, we are!" He started to step away, fighting with himself. "Don't do anything _too_ stupid until I get back."

"How can I? You're taking all the stupid with you."

Moira burst into laughter, holding her sides. "Maybe not _all_ the stupid. I'll be sure to make up for that."

"I'm counting on that." He smirked and pulled Steve into a tight hug. "You're a punk."

"Jerk." They slowly pulled away. "Don't win the war 'til I get there."

Bucky saluted him, and wrapped his arm around Moira's shoulders. "C'mon, Moi; we'll find you a gentleman whose face won't beg to be socked."

She let out a long breath. "Well...okay, but gimmie a minute or two." As he left to meet up with the girls, she went right up to Steve and began to breathe shallowly. "Look, I never woulda dared say this before, but..." She wrung her hands together and hugged him tightly. "Please don't go. Don't leave me. I know that sounds selfish and all, but I can't lose my only other friend; my _best _friend." She took in a sharp breath. "My brother is one of the strongest people I've ever met, but even he's not safe..." She sniffed loudly. "_I don't wanna lose you_."

Steve sighed, but felt a warmth spread through his body. She had known him and Bucky the same amount of time, and as such, he thought she regarded them on an equal level. He had even thought she favored Bucky more, seeing as they shared a similar brashness and sense of humor. Hearing this – that a woman could truly care about him so much – made him reconsider his decision for a split second. She had protested Bucky going off to fight in the beginning, but she had eventually just accepted it. He suddenly thought that perhaps she was trying to stop him out of pity. Bucky would come back undoubtedly – there was no way to strike James Barnes down. Even if Steve made it in, who knew how long he would last. Perhaps the image of someone as small as he was being stuck down on foreign soil would be jarring to anyone with heart, which Moira had in spades.

"You're awfully quiet." So was her voice. "I don't know if that's a good thing or a bad thing."

"Moira..." He attempted to pull away so he could look at her face, but she just held him tighter. That made it just a little harder to breathe than normal, but he found he didn't want to let go just yet either. "I want to at least _try_."

"Trying can lead to bad things," she mumbled into his shoulder, which her head now rested on. He felt an even more intense wave of warmth crash over him.

"It can also lead to good things." He smiled bashfully. "The first time I tried alcohol, I met you."

"Doesn't count, you didn't talk to me while drunk." He chuckled. "Why not spend your trying energy on going out to dance with us? You can just sit off to the side with me if you want, since that damn share crop Lilian's done with ya. Buck says he's gonna find me a new fella, but he knows very well that all I'm stuck on yo- ohhh, a night with friends." She pulled away and managed a weak smile at him. "_Please_."

He looked her dead-on in the eyes. She wasn't much taller than him, being short herself, but when he caught her stone gray eyes it was as if he were staring up a statue. "I'll catch up to you, I promise."

A strange looked passed over her face. In any other situation, he would call it realization. "When you come, you gotta dance with me. Just once." The words tumbled out of her mouth carelessly.

He rose a brow. "What happened to just sitting on the side?"

"Don't care. Changed my mind." She nodded resolutely, then smirked and lightly slapped his cheek. "Try sayin' you're from somewhere small, like...I dunno, a town in a Dakota. No one knows what happens there, so you can blame your frailty on something there, maybe."

"I'll keep that in mind." He pulled away first. She trudged back to the expo, dragging her feet like she always did, but her feet sounded heavier than ever. He made his way inside, and she didn't look back until he turned the corner. He thought about turning back himself, but there was no need; he would see her later, after all.

Until Dr. Erskine appeared. Thanks to him, he too shipped out the next day, but his last night in America was spent listening to the man as he explained what lay ahead. No music, no dancing, and no promises to keep. Nor were there any robust women to make sure he kept them.


	4. The Confession

Steve did not return to New York until several months later, when he was a super soldier who had been reduced to the star solider of the USO. Despite every smile he put on, every fake punch he landed on "Hitler" (whose real name was Frank, and he was really a very pleasant fellow), and every adoring spectator who gushed over him, this was truly the last thing he wanted to be doing. Well, aside from not serving at all; that would be hell. Every time he stepped into a theater, he felt just like the sketch he had filled several pages of his sketchbook with already: a monkey riding a unicycle on a very thin tightrope. This was all for...what? A couple of measly bananas? He supposed it _should_ be fulfilling to know he was helping the sake of war bonds so that others could fight, but what did it _really_ do? And _god_, what did Peggy think of him? He hadn't seen her since he started this blasted tour. Heck, he had only talked to her about the job once, but she was supportive and urged him to do it. Perhaps now that she had heard what it entailed, she realized she deserved a real solider.

All of the sudden attention from other women, however, was strange. The fact that he was no longer the short, skinny, frail man that women overlooked and shirked was still sinking in. He couldn't help but begrudge these women for their sudden interest. They were all so shallow, and they expected him to sway under their interest with a simple, breathy greeting. He may have looked like the type who would fall for that now, but he wasn't. He was reminded of the good doctor's words, how a weak man would know the value of power and strength. In a way, that applied to social situations too.

As he was leaving through the lobby after the matinée of his Buffalo show, he was bombarded by the usual post-show mayhem. Reporters, mothers wanting him to kiss their babies, children wanting photos with him, and a pretty blond who greeted him with an airy 'hi' after everyone had dispersed. He greeted her back with a smile – forced as usual – but before either of them could say a word, something caught his attention. The distinct sound of heavy shuffling, just as loud on carpet as it was on any other floor. He looked towards the sound and his breath caught in his throat. The same tweed dress from the expo that stretched over the same large, pear-shaped figure. The same head of frizzy brown hair. The same granite eyes – this time, even from such a distance, glassy with moisture.

"Moira?" he found himself calling without any thought. Her body went rigid and she made a run for the theater.

"I'm sorry, please excuse me," he said offhandedly to the blonde as he chased after her. His increased speed could easily allow him to catch up to her in a flash, but he jogged to see where she would leave him. She took an unexpected right turn and went out an inconspicuous door, leading outside. He found himself worried that he would lose her in the streets, but when he opened the door, he was in the large alleyway between the theater and the building to its right. Moira was leaning over, trying to catch her breath. When she looked up and saw him, she straightened right up and backed away. She looked as though she were staring down the barrel of a gun, her eyes misty. He looked at her fondly, staying in place so as not to scare her away.

"What's wrong?" he asked, as if no time had passed since they last saw each other. As soon as the words were out, however, he wanted to smack himself.

"What's _wrong_?" Her tone was enough of a verbal smack. She started laughing. "You never showed up to the dance. Promise-breaker."

He grinned at her, but as soon as she stopped laughing, her face returned to her terrified expression. "I see the posters all over. I, uh...I didn't wanna believe it at first, but I knew it was you. That damn smile o' yours..." She swallowed hard, trying to hold back her tears. "Goddamnit, Scamp, you're _huge_. I have to find something else to call you now. ..._Jeez,_ does the army put magic into their weights or something?"

He smirked. "Something like that. This doctor developed this serum to create super soldiers, and...it worked on me."

"Mmm. Real-life science fiction." That managed to bring a smile to her face. "But...is this what a 'super solider' is supposed to be doing? Parading around like a puppet for the government?" Her mouth quickly turned down into a scowl.

"Well, no. But it's all I _can_ do. Right now."

She stepped towards him, finally. "Applesauce, big Scamp. Wasn't all you could do before, isn't now." Her eyes scanned his face, then slowly moved down to his shoulders. He felt even more on the spot than he had after the procedure.

He half-smiled. "Gee, I missed you." He hesitantly extended his arms, and although she looked wary, she scurried right up to him and wrapped her arms around him, pressing herself against his chest.

"How's Bucky?" She was all-too hopeful, but she sounded like she already knew the answer.

"I haven't left the states; the farthest I've made it to the war is the training encampment. But I'm sure he's doing fine."

"Me too." She stiffened. "...This is strange." Her voice was wavering, and she laughed again. He tightened his hold on her, mentally agreeing. It was so strange being taller than her, and to feel her arms barely reach around his waist when they use to go all the way around. "Too strange."

He rose a brow and pulled away, holding her at arm's length. "What do you mean?"

She shook her head. "You're so different. I mean, I suppose that's a good thing and all, but...I dunno."

He gripped her arms gently. "Moira, tell me." A nervous feeling filled his stomach.

"I..." She sighed. "I had this stupid thought that I'd come here and you'd still be...you."

He chuckled. "Well, I am."

"No you're not." Her voice was so hushed a chill crawled up his spine. "You're not small. You're a walking American flag trying to sell war bonds, stage punching 'Hitler' and being danced up on by those share crop chorus girls. You're practically a sideshow attraction. The fat heads who haven't been shipped off yet _still_ laugh at ya." She let out a shuddery breath. "No, it's not all you can do. Why aren't you doing anything about it?!"

Her words rammed into him like a brick wall; one brick at a time. "You think I can? My colonel can't stand the sight of me. A senator set this up for me so I wouldn't be stuck in the dark as just a lab experiment." Oh, he had raised his voice at her and he really hadn't meant to...

She scoffed. "If you had the will, you woulda done it already. That's just who you are. I mean, most everyone thought you couldn't get in the army and...well, you enlisted. Boom, that shoulda showed them. But this is where you ended up. Right back in the states; back in New York. Did you even wanna come back here? Really, man."

"Believe me, I've tried. I've worked harder than I ever have in my entire life at training camp. There were times where I thought I was gonna pass out, but I kept going because no one expected it. I threw myself on a dummy grenade! I've upchucked so many times I..." He trailed off at the sound of her trying to hold in giggles. "Sure, I was recruited just because I was a possible candidate for this, but I didn't know if I was going to even get it. I tried hard for_ me_, Moira, I promise you; I showed them that I could go right out to the front lines and they still stuck me here."

She choked on a sob. "I read about how some mysterious muscle man thwarted a Nazi escape, saved a lil' kid, _and _used a cab door as a shield. Sound familiar?"

He blushed and looked down. "That was right after the procedure. He had been there the whole time...he caused an explosion, stole a vial of the serum, and killed the scientist who developed it – a very good man." His heart tightened. "Peg- ah, uh, Agent Carter, one of my superiors – managed to shoot him and slow him down, but he still got away, so I went after him and...well, you apparently know the rest." He rubbed the back of his neck. "A good test of the serum's effectiveness, I suppose."

She cracked a smile for a few brief seconds, then it was quickly replaced by another scowl. "No, stop. I'm frustrated with you!" She sighed, giving him a forlorn look. "If they saw you do that, then why aren't they puttin' you on the battlefield? The _front_? That all sounds incredible." Her voice cracked.

"They just see me as a lab rat; besides, a news hero has a better chance of selling bonds, apparently." He cocked his head to the side. "What happened to not wanting me to go?"

She forced herself to laugh. "There was no stoppin' ya; I shoulda known that from the start. But if you are gonna serve, you might as well do it where you want to be. Where you _deserve_ to be. Rather have you incapacitated 'cuz of a gunshot then you pullin' something from lifting that motorcycle with all those dames on it. Not that I want you to get shot at – god, no – but it's more...manly, y'know? Not that it really matters, it's all awful in war, but I...oh, never mind." She grabbed his hands and squeezed them tightly, trying to familiarize herself with how big they were. "I do miss the Scampy Steve; mostly how I was than him. But I really shoulda known better than to think your brain got all meaty too. I doubt the damn Nazis could poison and wash it if they tried."

He chuckled and pulled her closer. "Of course I'm still me."

"That poster for your tour, though...I dunno what it is about that face you're making. If you think you're looking earnest, you're not doing a good job."

"I think I looked very sincere." He laughed. "It's not even really me, it's an artist's rendition."

"Well, the painter did get that baby face right." She patted his cheek, her hand lingering there for a second. "I miss your art. It's the best art."

He squeezed her hand. "No..."

"Hush up." Her hand returned to his cheek to slap it. "You make the most normal things _beautiful_, man. Like...that one time you drew me." She folded into herself and went entirely red.

"I just draw them the way they are, really. There's beauty in everything if you look."

She was looking at him intensely, the same way she did the night of the expo. She moved even closer, then blurted out, "Who's Agent Carter?"

He blinked. "Agent Carter? She heads up the infantry. She's very, er, professional." He pulled on his collar.

"Didn't know women were allowed to do that anywhere. Good for her." She pursed her lips. "It _is _a she, right? You didn't have a speech slip up? Though I don't know a lot of guys whose names start with 'Peg'. Or commanders that go back 'Peg'." She pulled her arms away and crossed them over her chest.

He adopted a sheepish expression. "We're friendly, I suppose. She's very...compassionate. She was there during the procedure, and she's been looking out for me." His eyes glazed over as she entered his mind. Her commanding voice, tantalizing red lips, steely gaze, hourglass figure, soft waves of brown hair...

"You like her," she teased, although her tone was snappy. "I see it in your face. And from what you're saying, she likes you back. She must be a great lady."

Steve flushed entirely, shaking his head. "I don't...I mean...I'm not sure. She's just...the first woman to really be able to look past the frailty and see _me_."

Moira's face instantly fell and she pulled away entirely. "...Is she. Really." Her voice was devoid of emotion. "There's never been _any other gal_ whose given ya the time of day?"

He blinked. "Of course I know you have. I've just never had a woman really feel for me."

"Are you a _damn_ fool?" She started laughing crazily. "Dare I say it, Captain, you're a damn fool."

When anyone else called him 'Captain', something inside him lifted. When she said it, it felt like a punch to the gut. "I...okay?" He wished he had something more comforting to say, but the sights of her like this made his brain scramble.

"Okay? That's all you have to say?" She pulled at her hair.

"Well I apologize, Moira, but you've neglected to tell me what's wrong all of a sudden!" He ran a hand through his hair and sighed.

"Geez, you're oblivious to _everything_." She took a deep breath. "This whole time...I've been in love with you, Steve."

The brick wall finally crashed down on him altogether. She..._what_? He searched desperately for something to say, anything, as she was now looking at him with such a vulnerable expression that he couldn't just be silent. "I...don't understand."

She snorted, shaking her head. "What's so hard to understand? Do you really not know how _amazing_ you are? How you've always been?" She pressed her back against the wall of the theater. "I mean sure, it wasn't at first sight or anything – to me, you were the adorable little Scamp that I just wanted to stick in my pocket and take everywhere. Every thought that goes through your head, every opinion o' yours...it's fascinated me. I'm not too happy about hearing anybody but myself, lemme tell ya, even Bucky a lot of times. But I'm always lookin' forward to hearing you say things, no matter what. You're such a hit with my family, and that's real important to me. I mean sure, my family would give a meal and a cushion to sit on to anybody who isn't a fat head, but they can't talk to anybody much. 'Cept you." Her eyes filled with tears again. "And you're always so nice to me. You say I'm swell, and...you seem to think I'm pretty. I still remember when I asked you to draw me, and you just drew me the way I was, except...not, cuz I was so pretty, I dunno. And I was all 'why do I look like that'. And you just shrugged and said 'that's how I see you'. Just how you see me..._Steve,_ I don't even see me like that.

"Chalk that up to bein' a good friend all you want, but that's just who you are. I never got the pleasure of having a friend like you – having a real friend at all. Meek Jewish girls don't take well to other girls who act more like a fella than their fellas. And I suppose bein' a friend should be enough, but I dunno. You are so handsome, then and now, and even more so when you're drawing and so concentrated, or when your jaw clenched whenever you saw a recruitment poster. I wanted nothin' more than to smooch every scrap, bruise, and frown off your face, because you don't deserve to _ever_ be hurt. You don't deserve to lay your life down for a country that couldn'ta cared less about you. Now everyone does, 'cuz you're the picture of health. You're everything this damn country _wants_ to be. But before? You were everything good about America; the everyday fella, down on his luck but doing everything he could and more to get somewhere better." She wiped at her eyes, the tears spilling freely now. "I don't see how anyone couldn't fall head over heels for you. I s'pose I was lucky that ladies here are so shallow." She hid her face behind her hands.

Steve was flooded with conflicting emotions. All of the odd things he noticed about her behavior suddenly made sense. Why she seemed so much fonder of him. Why she always found an excuse to touch him in some way. Why he often caught her staring at him so intensely. Why she was concerned with her parents' approval of him and her efforts to immerse him in her culture. Why she wanted him to stay so badly. Heck, why she so easily rejected Bucky's date for her and why she wanted to dance with him. She had feelings for so long and he never had a clue. He really _was_ a fool.

But more importantly, what was he supposed to do? How was he supposed to _feel?_

With a sigh, he leaned in front of her and gently pried her hands away. "I..." He decided to say the first thing that came to mind. "If I would've known..."

She smirked, although her eyes were hollow. "No; no you wouldn't have. Agent Carter may not have been the first woman to feel for you, but she's the _prettiest_. You're amazing, but if you had your pick, you'd go with the pretty one who couldn't crush you." She smiled sadly and shrugged. "I'd never hold it against ya."

He frowned. "How can you say that about yourself?" He put his hands on her cheeks, brushing her ratty hair out of her face. "Moira, you're beautiful. _You're_ the amazing one if you think all those things about me when none of them are true..."

She scoffed and slapped his arm. "Stuff it; this is no time to be modest."

He grinned and shook his head. "You're one of the best things that ever happened to me. You've got a heart as big as a building."

"Just like the rest of me." She sighed, pressing her left cheek into his palm. "Yours is much bigger. And let's not get into a pissing match over this, I'm right." Her eyelids started to droop; she looked almost serene. Only a moment later, however, her eyes popped open and she looked just as vulnerable. "If nothing's gonna happen, please stop touching my face."

Steve could not find it in him to tear himself away. He was drinking her in, in the way he often did Peggy. He took note of her plump lips for the first time, that could potentially be very soft. While her eyes were usually cold, up close they were endless and bright. And her cheeks were so warm...

"Steve, honestly." She put her hands on his to pull them off, but instead, just kept them there and laced her fingers through his. She began to lean forward, her eyes focused on his mouth. It was obvious – even to him – what she was about to do. His conscience screamed at him to pull away, that letting this happen was ultimately unfair to her. But when her lips pressed to his, he froze. He could not even blink. She urged further, attempting to open his lips, but that wasn't of much use. This was Steve's first kiss, after all; he wouldn't know what to do even if he initiated it (which he never would, for good reason). His senses felt heightened, however, and he took note of how her lips really were as soft as they looked, if a little chipped. They continued to urge, and he mentally scolded himself for not offering her anything in return after she so bravely admitted her feelings and acted upon them. But what could he really do? If he forced himself to kiss her back, then it would not be at all enjoyable, and it could lull her into a false sense of security. Not doing anything, however, was just as harmful. She was there, throwing propriety and her dignity away for a kiss that was amounting to nothing?

Just as he felt his lips began to mold into hers – not even consciously – she pulled away quickly. "I'm...I'm sorry." Although she was very flustered, it was clear her apology was not entirely genuine.

"Don't be." He rose to his feet and pulled her up with him – he was briefly surprised at how easily he managed to. She was always the one who picked _him_ up. "It was...nice."

She snorted. "You didn't do anythin'!" She rubbed her eyes with her hand. "But I've wanted to do that for a long time, so thanks for not running away screaming, I guess."

He smirked and wrapped his arm around her shoulders. "Any guy would be lucky to have you as his girl."

"Right. Because all fellas want a fat Jew."

"Will you stop it?" He pressed her against his side. "If anything, that would be a...breath of fresh air from all the other dames. You'd constantly challenge them to be better men. And..." He sighed, trying to come up with a good explanation. "You'd get them. You wouldn't just go along with what they say for the sake of doing it so they stay with you. Heck, more often than not, you'll disagree with them. And they may not like that, but...well, it's still a good thing." He shook his head and ran a hand over his face. "This is much less impressive than what you said about me, I'm sorry. You're indescribable - in the best possible way."

He got a smile out of her. It wasn't much – little quirks at the corners of her mouth – but it was there. "Still the nicest stuff anyone's ever said to me. I bet you say even nicer things to Agent Carter."

He rubbed the back of his neck, smiling sheepishly. "Ah, not...no." He looked at her cautiously. "You're...okay with _that_?"

"Tch. I can't control what you do in Europe, even if I did have that right. If she's really as great as you say, then have a go at it. You deserve to be happy and all; more than everybody. I mean, that's really all I want for you – and to know that I had a hand in making that happen, even if it only involved me pushin' you to do it." She shrugged. He could tell that the words were painful for her to churn out, but they were genuine. "She just better be for real, because if she screws you over like the rest, I'll deal with her personally. Even if she could shoot me before I could do anything."

"Oh no, she's not like that, I promise." He couldn't help a chuckle at the thought of them having it out with each other. "But I don't even know when I'll see her again. This tour's not nearly over."

"Maybe she'll come out and see you or somethin'. She's gotta keep an eye on everyone she's superi-ating. ...And that's not a word." She chuckled. "You're going back eventually, right?"

"I'm touring to all the allied bases, trying to boost morale and such. She'll be there." He smiled slightly.

"Well there you go." She offered a smile of her own, but could not help a sigh. He took her hand in his.

"I would've been honored for you to be my girl. I was already honored to have you on my arm, even if it was just you helping me walk after I got the wind knocked outta me."

"Oh, please don't say that. That makes me feel so stupid for waiting too damn long." She laid her head on his shoulder. "Do you _really_ mean that? Even if you hadn't known me like you do, would you? _Are you really that good of a man_?"

Steve was forced to think. Was he? He supposed he would fall for her personality eventually, albeit still be intimidated and off-put by it sometimes. But...well. It was true that being an artist led him to find beauty in everything, especially the simple, mundane things that everyone else took for granted. However, he still _was_ a human being; what society dictated to be attractive tended to sway the opinion of everyone. Steve did like the women in the pin-ups, but women like Peggy – their bountiful curves, authoritative air, and intelligence – were really what he dreamed of. Moira was...not that. A pretty face was always a given in dreams, and although her features were soft, she was not pretty unless one really looked – although Steve always did, and he honestly did think her beautiful. She certainly was not the smartest person around, and the wisdom she often tried to impart to him was never very helpful. She was tough, sure, but mostly around her friends and anyone who really threatened them. Otherwise, she closed up, trying to seem as small and insignificant as she possibly could – quite the contrast to her always raging about who people should be more conscious of others.

It wasn't like he had any of those qualities either. Why should he expect so much if he could offer nothing special in return? Something began to gnaw at the back of his mind. Hushed words, in a familiar voice, insisting that he did indeed have everything special to offer, beating against his eardrums. Isn't that what it all boiled down to; being able to see everything that was special about a person when no one else could? Shouldn't that be enough reason to fall for someone? Did everything else _really_ matter?

The theater door burst open, banging against the wall, and the very frustrated-looking store manager stomped halfway through. "Rogers, dammit, we've been looking all over for you! We gotta practice the punch scene before tonight's show. Some of the girls couldn't stop moving during performance." He disappeared back inside.

"He's just gonna come back if I don't go now..." He took her hand in both of his.

"No, yeah, I get it. You gotta work, I gotta go back home and work. Burned a hole in our pockets, me getting the train and show tickets. Bless my folks..."

His face lit up with an idea. "I'll see what I can do about the train tickets, but I'm sure I can get you and your parents to the New York City show for free. Please come."

Her expression turned sappy. "Oh, _Scamp_." She patted his cheek. "Only if you promise to answer my question then."

He stiffened, but still managed a smile. "Sure."

She got up on her tiptoes – wobbling a little – and kissed his cheek. "You have a good tour. And I don't care if you're overseas fighting or not, you start writing to me. If Bucky won't, you sure as hell have to." She wrapped her arms around his neck.

He wrapped his arms tightly around her waist, resting his cheek against her hair. "I promise I will. And you take care of yourself and send my best to your parents." Hesitantly, he pressed a long kiss to her forehead. He unwrapped his arms and pulled away, stepping back inside. He did glance over his shoulder to see Moira's eyes focused intently on his, er, backside. He instantly blushed, and when she noticed he was looking she quickly averted her gaze.

"I, uh, sorry." She started to walk away. "I'll be seein' you, Captain Rogers."

Her felt something shift underneath his belt. He reached around to his side and pulled out a folded-up photo. He opened it and was instantly taken back to a much simpler time, before the war had bled into his life. The picture was from the trio's trip to Coney Island. He, Moira, and Bucky stood in front of the roller coaster, their arms around each other. Bucky had a smashed corn dog sticking out of his mouth, Moira was laughing, and Steve had a half-happy, half-exasperated expression on his face that clearly said 'yeah, they're idiots, but they're my friends'. He felt another swell of emotions over seeing it – Moira was so sneaky, slipping it there. He headed back for the door, intent on catching her, but someone grabbed his arm and pulled him into the theater.


	5. The Brother

Steve was never one to attach adjectives to every day he experienced. He was thankful enough to get through each one relatively unscathed and that was that. But _this_? Liberating hundreds of POWs from a HYDRA facility? Having his title finally cheered and revered by men he respected with every fiber of his being? Reuniting with his best friend? He could honestly say that this was turning out to be one of the better days in his life.

Except that the photo Moira had given him – the one he always kept with him now, folded under his belt – was now gone. He should have known better than to take it into battle, but...well, he didn't really know why he took it. Other men had pictures of their women to tuck into their pockets, and since Steve really had no idea what was going on between him and Peggy, he didn't really have a woman to carry around a picture of. His friends were just as good, he guessed.

"Hey, what's a picture of my sister doin' here?"

Steve, who had been approaching Bucky for a proper conversation, stopped and turned around. It had been a few hours since the POWs had returned, and everyone was either receiving medical attention, resting, or scarfing down alcohol. A short man with a long, bandaged gash across his face crouched down and picked up a picture on the ground. Quite possibly Moira's picture. As Steve rushed forward, the man studied it.

"What's Moira doin' with two fools? Hell, what's she doin' all the way out – hey, wait a minute." He held the picture so close to her face that his large nose poked a bend in it. He then looked right at Steve, and smiled knowingly. "'Ey, Captain. Or should I call you Scamp?"

Steve reached him and rose an eyebrow, barely registering that he had mentioned Moira. "Er, I'm sorry?"

The man threw his arms up and grinned. "I'm Moira's brother! Michael! Unless she never mentioned me, in which case, _pfeh_." He chuckled. "Gee, from her description o' you, I shoulda been able to pick ya out from a mile away. You sure bulked up, though. Now lemme tell you, there's nothing with being tiny-" He patted his own head, "-but not when you've got next to no muscles and a flat _tuckas_, am I right?"

Steve blinked. Well, they certainly shared the same...volume. "She...described me?" He grew vastly more uncomfortable.

"Don't be embarrassed, Cap." He slapped his chest. "You've got nothing to be ashamed about. Only now I have no chance with the nurses." He nudged his arm with his elbow, and looked over his shoulder. "Sarge! Come over here!"

Bucky appeared at Steve's side in an instant and clapped his hand on his back. "Private."

Michael went to Bucky's side and put his arm around his shoulders. "Look at us; so close." His tone was something approaching sarcastic.

Bucky looked practically defiled, but didn't make a move to shake him off. "The _hell_ are you doing, Shilsky?"

"Did he never mention he was Moira's brother?" Steve couldn't hold back a smile.

A look of realization passed over Bucky's face. "...That makes sense." He cleared his throat. "Still. What're you doing."

"Just trying to feel close to you gents." Michael shrugged. "Keep in mind, I am a _tad_ sloshed. HYDRA didn't even have the decency to force burning moonshine down our throats; making up for lost time."

Bucky shrugged his arm off, finally. "Well, that explains it. You know, she talked about you a lot."

"Aha! She does miss me." He stretched his arms over his head. "The again, her letters do sound pretty needy. 'Hi brother, how are ya. Steve and Bucky this, Scamp and Buckaroo that. Bucky did the dumbest thing and I did it with him, I'm _so gone_ for Steve..." Bucky chuckled as Steve blushed and rubbed the back of his neck. "Oh, had she still not told you? Whoops." Michael cringed, but couldn't help a smile.

"Oh no, she told me." Steve cleared his throat, going back to being uneasy.

Michael pursed his lips. "Why don't we all go to a tent. We'll finish off my scotch and...discuss things." He started to go back the way he came. Bucky followed, pulling Steve with him.

"So, she finally told you?" he asked, sounding smug.

"You _knew_?"

"You think that broad could keep a secret? 'Sides, I know when a girl's flirting. She's been carrying a torch for you since...well, a long time ago."

Bucky had to push him into the tent – Steve was limp, feeling foolish once again. Michael sat on one of the cots, twisting the cap off his bottle and taking a large swig.

"Aren't Jews now allowed to have booze?" Bucky accused as he and Steve took their seats across from him.

Michael chuckled. "I barely remember the rules anymore; I barely have a faith anymore. If God really was up there, he wouldn't be letting this _shit _happen. Unless he finds it greatly satisfying watching his creations tear each other apart." He handed the bottle off to them. "There's no use in having faith in no one but yourself and your comrades."

"Faith's a very powerful thing; everyone needs it." Steve frowned. "Perhaps you should reconsider-"

"Lay off him." Bucky swung back a big sip. "I've been getting by just fine without any God."

"_See_? He gets it."

Steve sighed. "What would your parents think?"

"Hah. What would my parents care? I'm alive, aren't I?"

"I don't know. They seemed very proud of their religion and all..."

"You've even been in my _house_?" Michael gaped. "What, are you and Moi gettin' hitched or something?" Steve picked the wrong time to try the scotch, because he just spat it out and choked on what managed to slip into his throat. Bucky burst into laughter and patted him hard on the back. "Why's that so funny?"

"Steve here's still trying to figure out how to ask a girl if he can sit beside her; asking any girl for marriage is way off. Buck gave him one last, especially hard pat and took the bottle. "We've both been in your place."

"As guests, only for a short time. Your parents were kind enough to offer us their dinner table from time to time. That's all."

"As long as you didn't sleep in my bed or anything." Michael sighed, pulling on the fabric of his pants. "How is everyone, anyway?"

"I haven't seen your parents in a long time, but from then...alright. They're awfully distressed about all of the...utter madness, even though they don't know much. They miss you especially." Steve smiled sadly. "You too, Buck."

"Bless 'em." Micahel took the bottle back and rose it to the sky. "And Moi?"

"She's...she's great. I haven't talked to her in a while – not since the Buffalo show – but she hasn't changed, knowing her." He smiled fondly. "She'll be glad to be getting letters from you again."

"She'll be expecting them from all of us." Michael took a swig. "So, do you fancy her or what?"

Steve rose a brow. "Fancy?"

Michael shook his head and rubbed his eye. "Sorry; even in war, these Brits I'm serving with still sound classy and it just rubs off on the rest of us. Do you like her, I mean. Love her, even." He looked uncomfortable saying it, but he quickly changed to look expectant.

"Er..." Steve swallowed. "Well, it's very complicated-"

"What's so complicated about it?" Michael barked. "It's a simple yes or no question."

Not so simple, Steve though; he was sure to endure a storm of fury if he said no. He couldn't help but be touched by that fact that Michael seemed so protective of Moira – not that she needed him to be.

"You're not making it sound so simple," Bucky finally spoke up. "What, are you gonna punch him in the throat if he says no? Can you even _reach_ his throat?" The statement made Steve experience déjà vu. The fact that it was his throat this time around made something inside him dully ache.

Michael scowled. "Maybe not, but my foot can get to much more sensitive places."

"Alright, men," Steve held his hands up, "Let's not. To answer your question, Michael...we're very close. She's like family to me. But she sprung the news on me so suddenly."

"So? That doesn't mean you couldn'ta had feelings before."

"Look," Bucky spoke up again, doing his best not to sound condescending. "He has no idea how to be around women when it comes to romance. He just stands there most of the time, petrified like a damn telephone pole. He has no idea how to act or how to feel. If he did have feelings for her, he wouldn't even know about 'em."

"Well...that's not entirely true. When she told me, I felt a lot of things." Steve adopted a conflicted expression. "I-I suppose I do like her. But before she told me I had met quite a dame, and-"

"So, what, my sister isn't as good as this _sheba_?"

"Well, she and Agent Carter are two very different wo-"

"Oh, _her_?" He made a strange noise that could be interpreted as approving. "I understand completely. Sorry, Moi..."

"Like I said, besides Bucky, she's the closest thing I've got to family. I've never really considered her in the romantic way. If I had, maybe I could give you a straight answer. But now that I've been, er, catapulted into it, I really can't put my feelings into terms that anyone'll understand."

"Do you realize how feminine you sound? You're supposed to be a war hero," Bucky said, smirking.

"Hey – feelings are rough. I've lost track of how many hearts I've broken." Michael smiled slightly.

"Less than one?" Bucky was all smugness.

"...What are we going and talking about me for?" He took another swig of the scotch and set it on the ground. "Look, I really don't mean to get on you. I'm just mighty protective of Moira, and the thought of her being rejected just gets me so riled up. We didn't get on much with the other kids in the neighborhood, so we pretty much just had each other..." His eyes started to glaze over, but he cleared his throat and regained his composure. "I'm really in debt to ya both for keeping her company. Hell, I can't believe _I_ never met you before this; never around at the right times, I guess."

"Yeah, man; the war didn't come to America 'til two years after we started going to your store, so that's no excuse for you being...not there." Bucky shrugged. "Guess it wasn't meant to be."

Steve just shook his head and smiled. "Believe us; it was truly our pleasure."

"Miss that ball-buster every damn day." Bucky looked down, but couldn't help a smirk.

"You don't have to tell me."

They all sat in silence before someone outside announced that everyone was going to a pub a couple of miles away for some long-awaited drinking. Michael tossed aside the not-yet-empty bottle and rushed out – but not before flicking Steve's picture back to him without a word. Bucky made a move to get up, but paused when Steve didn't.

"You coming?"

Steve shook his head. "Not today. Next time, though."

"Great. Tomorrow then." He clapped him on the back and left. Steve sat on the bed for a moment, then went to go get his sketchbook. He tore out a page and used it to write a letter to the Shilskys.

He asked all of them how they were faring and wished them well with the business. He, of course, addressed Moira the most. He told her about his daring rescue, about reuniting with Bucky and meeting Michael. He told her he missed her and that he wished he could have seen her at the New York City show, although his USO days seemed so far in the past now that it seemed silly mentioning it. He signed it as 'Scamp', knowing it would make her smile, and tucked away a few of his sketches; one of the old ones of him as a chimp, one of a solider he caught gazing longingly at a photo of his sweetheart, and one of the interior of the bunks at Camp Lehigh. The last one was seemingly out of place, but sketching it was what he spent the night before his procedure doing instead of sleeping. The last piece of art he had made as the true scamp. He made note of that on the back of the piece.

He sent it all off the next day with a slightly longer letter from Michael (who told all about being held prisoner and being saved by Steve along with all the sentiments); but not before editing his to include the fact that he had been made an official Captain that morning. Bucky opted to wait for a letter from her, insisting that he was terrible at coming up with what to say on his own. Although he got right to strategizing, his mind briefly found its way back to Moira and how she'd fit in to all this. She would probably try to use the map as a board game, and when berated, see absolutely nothing wrong with what she'd done.

Once everyone was reprieved for the evening, Bucky found him as soon as he emerged outside.

"We've gotta get ourselves cleaned up. But you especially; you've got someone to impress now."

That he did. But that someone wore a red dress that far surpassed anything he could have done to make himself look respectable. High-heeled shoes that made it seem like she towered over all the lowly men in attendance. Deep red lipstick that made every word that came out of her mouth all the more enticing. And her eyes...even in the dull light of the bar, they sparkled when they stared earnestly up into his. Just for one moment, thanks to a simple meeting that was so charged with possibility, any thoughts about the woman who would probably try to use the map of HYDRA facilities as a board game were gone.


	6. The Letters

It was hard to think about anything but the war after Steve was made an official captain. He thought about strategy, the Howling Commandos, Peggy (well, she was always _there_), and, well, being a captain. He thought back spending hours every night alternating between acting out WWI battles with his figurines and just staring at the single picture he had of his father in the trenches. First hearing about Pearl Harbor and knowing right away that he had to fight. Every bit of training he made Bucky put him through, only for it not to make a difference in the end. Not only did he end up serving anyway, but he was now holding a high-ranking position. One where he could use his brains as well as his sudden brawn, and garner respect from everyone. Even in the midst of war-torn Europe, he could say that he had never been happier. Or busier.

Still, only a week and a half after he sent his, Moira's letters came. Even though her replies arrived with everyone elses', it was faster than any of the boys expected.

Bucky's was angry, ragging on him for not writing her first and getting instead Steve to meekly ask her if she would write one instead, but still overjoyed that he was back on the Allied side. Michael's was strangely sentimental, starting out sarcastic but lapsing into how much they missed him, how she was so afraid she would never get to speak to him again but she should have known better than to think he wouldn't make it, and that she understood why he turned his back on faith. But Steve's letter?

_Dear Steve (formerly known as Scamp),_

_Thanks for writing to me first unlike your dense friend! I don't care if he has nothing at all to say, he could just write 'hi, I'm not dead, thought you'd like to know'. Anyways, my parents send their love and faith and thanks for you thinking of them and saving Michael's ass and all. The store's going well; rationing is weird, but if it helps you guys. Also, you'll never believe it, just a week after Buffalo, this fancy-looking man comes with boxes of crap. He says 'you Jews are going to support your country in the most effective way' and boom, inside is Captain America stuff. I don't know what being Jewish has to do with doing service to America by selling your stuff, but hey, you were all over the place, so I'm not surprised you were forced into a little corner grocer. It brought us a lot of business; sold out quick. SO thanks for that! But all that's behind you now, huh? You're a real captain now; take that, fat head colonel. Although you've probably made up with him by now, knowing you. God, we're going to win if you're involved with the planning, I know it._

_I'm happy you still have time to do things like write and draw. Even though the art you sent is dated before your promotion. Thanks for the bunk sketch. The monkey cracks me up, the guy makes me sad, but the fact that the room is from when you were still tiny means a lot. This is going to sound stupid and all, but having this now is kind of the closest thing to having you home. It makes me feel connected to you, I guess. Have I mentioned I miss you? I could use your chest as a pillow, dammit. Watching you scare off all the old bullies, punch one of them clear across the street if you have to. Being in your arms, in that new bear hug of yours that I really, really enjoy._

_So, yeah, I didn't show up to the New York City show. Couldn't bring myself to, honestly. But I'd like to know anyway; are you that good of a man? Could you love a loud, frumpy broad like me over your angel of the battlefield? You know very well that I love you over everything, but I don't want to spend the rest of my life waiting for you to make up your mind. I don't want to be toyed around with; you're not the type, I know, but it just feels that way sometimes. Even if you don't do it intentionally, bless your big heart. If by some strange twist of fate you decide you want me after all, I want to be fully excited for you coming home, lifting me up like I don't weigh a thousand pounds, and smooching me for real. And if you do go with Agent Carter, I'll get to still be excited, but maybe I'll run into you on the streets with a pretty swell guy on my arm who'll do the smooching. I'm kidding myself if I say think there's ever going to be a better guy than you, though. You've ruined me, dammit. Then again, if I find someone else who makes me happy, then that's all that's going to matter. Like I said, that's all I want for you._

_Don't pick me out of guilt or anything. Just because I poured my heart out to you in a damn alleyway and cried about it doesn't mean you have to do anything about it. If you're going to be unhappy at all, go with Agent Carter; please. Or on the other hand, if she's going to make you unhappy, go with me. But let me be honest; I saw the look on your face when you talked about her. You'll never look at me that way or look that way when you talk about me. Maybe you can chalk that whole thing up to lust, I don't know. If she really sees what I see in you, then she's a special broad indeed. And she must be a knock-out on top of that; you struck it big. I was lucky to get my chance when I did._

_Salutations,_

_Moira_

_PS. Thanks for saving Michael and his buddies, but that goes without saying, I think. I'm in debt to you forever._

Steve was left...well, to put it bluntly, pretty flabbergasted. She had started off the letter in a way that was just so her, harkening back to the good old days before he left and before her feelings were made known. He had expected her wishes that he was there, and she had also said that to Michael and Bucky. Oh, but the ending; even with the quirks in her writing that paralleled her speech, it did not sound like her. This was only the third time in the god, five years he had known her where her emotions spilled out of her without her tough façade getting in the way or there being any hint of snark. It made her seem so vulnerable, just like the rest of the superficial women New York had to offer. Not to mention how she kept contradicting herself; she clearly wanted to be the girl he chose, but then she went and said he should probably choose Peggy..at least he thought that was what she was saying. Bucky often complained of women being too cryptic and never directly saying what they wanted; Steve now understood how frustrating that was.

He didn't know what to do. While he wouldn't go as far to hold Peggy to that high of a pedestal yet, Moira's description was pretty accurate; Peggy was a no-nonsense, gun-toting angelic figure. Would she stand to put up with this nonsense? Why had this all turned into _such _nonsense? His mind had been made up, he thought, due to that night, that proposition, and _that_ red dress. But now he was faced with Moira's haphazard, inky cursive on this cheap sheet of newsprint paper. He thought of the tweed dress; strange on anyone else, but rather lovely on her. How even though she despised every fleshy and full part of her body, it made for the best hugs and the most for him to work with in his sketching. Her full pink lips. Her smooth, pale cheeks. How her nose always bumped into his shoulder, neck, or chest when she hugged him. Her thick eyebrows, which seemed so out-of-place with the rest of her features. Her eyes, dark and cold but welcoming, like winter.

He shot up from where he sat, intent on going where he could clear his head and go back thinking about what was imperative to his job. A second piece of paper fell from Moira's envelope. He caught it before it hit the floor, and he saw it addressed to 'Agent Carter' in Moira's scrawl. He desperately wanted to respect her privacy, but curiosity overtook him and he unfolded it before he could stop himself.

_Dear Agent Carter,_

_Since Captain Rogers probably keeps a lot about his life in Brooklyn quiet, you're probably wondering who I am. Hi, I'm Moira Shilsky, nice to meet you. I'm a Jew who helps my parents around their grocery store, I'm not one for socializing, and my I have a brother who's overseas with you; you might've met the ass already. I've also known Steve for five years; I know he's special, but you were able to pick up on that right away. Well, so was I, I guess. I'm a dear friend, you see, and I hear that Steve likes you in the more-than-friendly way. Heck, he might even love you. Good for you; you're great enough to have caught the attention of the best fella in the world. I sure hope you know how lucky you are; he's swell to his friends and anyone he respects, but I can only imagine how goddess-like he'd treat his girl. So do you both a service and just take him on already. Don't you dare toy with him or break his heart; I cut the meat we sell and I'm damn good at it, so I won't hesitate to hack you with my cleaver. If you're really as great as you sound, though, we won't have a problem. I have nothing else to say, really; I'd say I'll be keeping my eye on you, but we're an ocean away. Besides, I'm really bad at watching people. So have a nice life and take what I'm saying to heart. I don't write random letters to strangers for just any old guy, you know._

And now...there was this. She literally wrote Peggy, going on and on about him and _threatening_ her. Still...knowing that she spoke about him this way to others made something inside him – he wasn't even sure what – release. He grabbed the first blank piece of paper and writing utensil he saw and retreated to an unoccupied room. There was no place to sit nor a desk, so he poked his head outside, grabbed an unused clipboard, and leaned up against the wall. His thoughts spilled onto the paper in a flourish; he wasn't even entirely conscious of what he was writing. He wasn't sure how much time had passed, but he had barely filled when someone finally intruded – namely one of Howard's lackies.

"Captain Rogers? Mr. Stark finally has your uniform."

With a sigh, Steve folded up the letter and pocketed it. "Swell."

Over the next couple of months, he barely had time to add much else to it, what with his non-stop campaign to take out all the HYDRA bases with the Howling Commandos. Whenever he got a moment to breathe, he managed to add a word or two before he was pulled away again. When he lost Bucky...well, the emotions he felt were far fewer than they had been in a long time, but what replaced them were anger, grief, and determination; a dangerous cocktail. He added a whole paragraph about Bucky, bluntly breaking his death to her, talking about what a great friend he was to them, and oh, he lost track of his thoughts somewhere down the line. This letter sure had that effect on him.

Suddenly, he was at the wheel of a high-tech plane headed straight for his home state. Peggy was on the radio with him, distress weighing down her voice. Schmidt had...dissolved, he supposed, the Tesseract burned through the bottom of the plane, and now...well, he was going to die. But his mind had never been clearer.

"I gotta put her in the water."

"_Please_, don't do this," Peggy urged, although she knew there was no other option. "We have time. We can work it out."

"Right now, I'm in the middle of nowhere. If I wait any longer, a lot of people are gonna die." His life was nowhere near worth that much. After a few uncomfortable moments of silence, he pressed on. "Peggy...this is my choice."

He pulled out his compass and placed it over one of the meters. The picture inside it was so small, cut out of the newspaper and already fraying at the edges, but it was still perfect. As he pulled it out, the photo from Coney Island fell onto his leg. Folding it over so only Bucky and Moira showed, he placed it on the same meter. How symbolic; the people he cared about the most were staring right at him as he was doing the stupidest thing of his life.

Although, nothing could ever be more ridiculous than the internal battle he had trying to decide if he was in love with Moira or Peggy. With the thought in mind, he pushed the craft down, channeling all his frustration into the controls. How could he be so selfish? How could he flirt (at least that's what he hoped he had done) with and gaze so intently at Peggy when he knew that Moira was back home, wondering if she should wish he would do that to her since she didn't know how he felt. He patted every pocket on his suit until he felt out the one that held Moira's letter to him. He opened it up and skimmed over it one last time. She wanted the reunion she would never get, only now due to a far more tragic reason, but if only he had finished his damn reply to her in time (which he left back at the base, how smart of him) she wouldn't still be waiting. Or would she? He still had no idea how he would have finished the letter. Perhaps he really wasn't that good if he couldn't discern his feelings. That was putting her through enough distress as it was, but god, what would she feel when she realized he wasn't coming home? He pushed the thought far from his mind before it could fully manifest; he never wanted to picture that.

Perhaps...perhaps it would help if he had something comforting to say, courtesy of the only woman who could hopefully get them to her now. He hoped he had enough time to explain to Peggy why this was so important. And should he have told her about the situation he put them in? "Peggy..." he finally said before he was fully ready.

"I'm here."

Not a second passed before a wave of clarity crashed into him, and just like that, he knew. He did love Peggy. She was truly powerful, and no matter what she wore or where she was, she commanded the attention of all. Steve was the only one whose attention she truly coveted. The fact that she was here now, sticking with him to the end even though she was clearly in pain was all the proof he needed that she truly valued him. However, he was not going to tell her anything about Moira; he wouldn't dare. Before, the girl had been indescribable to him, but now...she was _the_ most extraordinary person he had ever had the pleasure of knowing. She wasn't one to command attention from everyone or look well-kept, but she was hilarious, kind-hearted, unafraid to fight, and so incredibly accepting; that's what made her powerful. She held a special place in his heart that could never belong to anyone else, not even Peggy. That was why he was no longer going to say anything about her; he didn't want to share her, because no one else could understand her importance more than him. The only other person who remotely could was dead.

He kept one hand firmly on the controls, but just barely touched his other hand to the photograph. "I love you, Peggy, but she'll always be the most important..." He muttered.

"Steve?" Peggy spoke up again, her voice wavering. "Dammit, I think the connection's weakening. What did you say?"

"I said...I'm gonna need a rain check on that dance." He took the photo and slipped under the brown strap on his chest, right above his chest. "Be seein' you, Moi..."

"Alright. A week, next Saturday, at the Stork Club."

"You got it." He bet Moira would have liked the Stork Club. She'd throw back a couple of beers if she was coaxed enough by the other patrons and hang around the piano the rest of the night.

"Eight o'clock on the dot, don't you dare be late. Understood?"

"You know, I still don't know how to dance." He remembered the one time Moira offered to teach him a dance. She called it the Living Chair – someone sat down anywhere and moved his or her legs however he or she pleased.

"I'll show you how. Just be there."

"We'll have the band play something slow. I'd hate to step on your-"

The connection cut off. The memories turned to black. There was nothing but the cold. If he was conscious, he could have likened it to Moira's eyes.


	7. The Victory

V-E Day was the most zealous day America had seen since the Roaring Twenties. A day of celebration for everything the Allied forces had saved and preserved. The celebration only continued once the surviving troops returned a few days later; for those who had soldiers coming home to them, that is. When Michael appeared in front of Moira at the docks alone, any semblance of joy in the occasion was gone.

"Bucky was killed behind enemy lines, and Steve crashed a giant bomb that was headed for here in the Arctic. I tried to get the Colonel to send condolence letters, but he-"

"I knew it in my gut." She was doing her best not to cry in front of all these strangers, but the pit that was growing in her stomach made her want to scream and tears prick at her eyes. "They never wrote me back."

"You know, he di-"

Moira wrapped her arms around him and squeezed him to her. "I'm so glad you're home safe." She did her best to sound happy, but the words came out in a monotone. She took him by the hand and pulled him away from the throng of eager women and children to the back of the crowd where their parents were waiting. She stood to the side as they embraced him, their relief and elation just making the pit grow larger. Then they had to ask where Bucky and Steve were; Michael mournfully told them that they weren't coming home. Mrs. Shilsky was the first to cry, hiding her face in her husband's chest.

"God rest their souls," he muttered into the cloth over her hair, rubbing her arm. "Moira, dear, are you alright?"

Moira looked down at the ground and closed her eyes, giving him something between a nod and a shake. She wiped at her face, trying to get the blush and peach lipstick off before her parents noticed. She felt like a clown for wearing makeup now.

"They both went honorably." Michael put his hand on his mother's arm. "C'mon, now, it's okay."

"He had such _chutzpah_." Mrs. Shilsky muttered, dabbing at her eyes with her coat sleeves.

"He still does, Ma!" Moira urged, several tears rolling down her cheeks. She quickly wiped them away with her arm. "They both do...I...can we go home please?"

Everything was a blur for her until she was finally back in her cramped room – one that she would no longer have to herself due to Michael's return. She surveyed her half, feeling numb. A single iron bed with a ratty quilt draped messily over the mattress. A wooden table next to it, on which was a lamp and a small matchbox full of nickels. She threw her coat on the mattress and bent down, pulling out a large tin for chocolates. She took off the lip and stared down at her collection of Steve's sketches. On top was the one of Camp Lehigh; she set that aside to show the one of him as a monkey. When she pulled that away, her breath hitched. It was the sketch of her; no special scene, just her leaning on a shelf in the store, reading the newspaper. It was still her – same doughiness and wide hips, same uncontrollable hair, same large nose and brows. Somehow, despite those quirks, he made really did make her look _beautiful. _All because he thought that was what she always was.

She finally allowed the sobs to rack her body. She pushed the tin against the wall and collapsed on the bed, shouting into her pillow and soaking it with hot tears. The pit was devouring her stomach whole, and every nerve in her body was pulsating in pain; this was her hell. She had been preparing herself already; as soon as a month passed without any reply, she started thinking about what a life without Bucky and Steve would be like. She couldn't then, but now she _had_ to.

She would never get to crack a joke, eat large meals, or tease with Bucky again. She doubted she would ever meet another person that she could carry on endless banter with or that could even remotely match his wit and snark. No more hair-ruffles. No more escorting him home in a drunken, giddy haze. No more people-watching, poking fun at the strange ones and interpreting strangers' conversations in what ever silly way they wished. No more smirks and full-blown smiles, even when they were sleazy. He was the leader of the trio, undoubtedly; it would be all too strange getting through every day without his guidance – even if he was a threat to all things pure. Still; the world had lost one of the most steadfast friends anyone could have.

After – oh, who the hell cared how long – she reached back under the bed for the box and fished out Steve's only letter. Crumpled and worn, covered in various stains from water, broth, tea, and cleaning solution; barely readable now. She clutched it like a lifeline and sobbed harder. She truly could not imagine a life without Steve; it was as awful as a world without a sun. Every kind word, selfless action, earnest look, pencil stroke, _damn_ wonderful hug – all gone. As was the possibility that he could have loved her – but what did that even matter anymore? No one could be on his arm now. Still, how could _he_ have died? He was supposedly the best there was; _untouchable_. He didn't deserve this.

And _god, _what was Agent Carter feeling? Yes, she hadn't known him as long and wasn't _nearly_ as close to him, but she had witnessed him in action. She saw him evolve right before her eyes and become a marvelous war hero that lived up to his name. To see all that end on top of her feelings; she must have gone through pain herself. How lucky for her.

The creak of the bedroom door brought her back to her room, which suddenly seemed emptier. Michael stood in the doorway, looking war.

"It's late; you've been cryin' in here for hours." He twisted the doorknob and grit his teeth. "But you prolly don't wanna come out yet."

She sat up slowly, wiping her nose on the back of her hand. "Yeah." Her voice was raspier than ever, her throat scratchy and dry like sandpaper. He sat across from her on his bed.

"I talked to Pa about breaking away from the faith and all." He offered her a weak smile. "He's disappointed, but he says he respects my decision. He hopes I can come back to it someday, but..." He shrugged.

"Good for you." She looked right at him, but her eyes were hollow.

"They wouldn't want you to cry, Moi." He sighed. "You out of everybody should be strong about this."

"_Why_?!" She pulled at her hair and let out an agitated yelp. "They were my best friends! Steve was the guy I loved, Michael! What, I'm supposed to pretend everything's okay, like the world's just gonna go on without them?"

"Dammit, yes! As unfair as that is, that's life; no matter how great a person was, life goes on for every body else."

"No. That can't be how it works." She got up and paced around the room, her heavy footsteps causing the beds and the table to shake. "They've gotta put it in the papers; there's gotta be a parade. A funeral, at least!" She paused, then lunged at the lamp. "This can't be it!"

"_Moira_." Michael gripped her arms and pulled her back. "Don't lose your marbles over this, please! The Colonel said all of Steve's actions would be leaked to the media; the papers'll be talking about how great he was for a long time. And Bucky...well, he'll find his way in there somehow." He rubbed her elbows with his thumbs. "Heh, you think Steve would want some grand thing? He'd just want people to keep on celebrating."

"How can we celebrate when we've lost what was worth fighting for?" Her voice was barely above a whisper, before she resumed bawling. "I don't care if they don't want me to, I'm doin' it anyway." She froze, then dropped to her knees and combed madly through the box. "I gotta have another picture of them. The Coney Island one wasn't the only one I had..." All of his sketches were strewn about on the floor now, and with no photograph in sight, she slumped over it. "Oh _god_, I don't. Michael, I'm gonna forget what they look like!"

"No you're not." He sat down beside her and wrapped his arm around her shoulders. "You're gonna remember them better than anyone. And if anyone ever comes around asking what Captain America was like, you can tell 'em all about him. Every damn memory you have of him and Bucky, you're gonna remember. Don't you dare doubt that."

She scowled. "Not gonna remember _Captain America_ better than Agent Carter..." She mumbled, hiccuping loudly.

Michael pulled away with a huff. "Jeez, what is it with you and this woman? Okay, I get it; she ruined your...wooing, or whatever. But she's a real good lady; you'd like her if you knew her. But all you did was spend at least a couple sentences _complaining_ about how difficult she was making everything. You think it was really her fault? Sis, men are the pricks; we're fickle. As good as Steve was, deep down, he was just a-"

Moira's fist colliding with his chest knocked the wind out of him. "Don't you dare."

"Alright, alright; yeesh, you been boxing while I've been gone?" He rubbed the now incredibly tender spot.

That actually got a smile out of her. "Steve had Bucky put him through a lotta training before he tried to enlist the first time, including fighting in the ring. I tagged along a few times; picked up a few things."

"See? You do remember." He rubbed her shoulder. "Anyways, my point. On V-E Day, we all went out to this pub close to the base. And Peggy was there, too; she needed a drink and didn't wanna be alone with her thoughts, I guess. I mean, she was on the damn radio with him right when he crashed! So Steve never gave her the letter you wrote to her – also, why the hell did you write a letter to her – but I found it in the base. Seeing as I was tipsy, I go up to her, greet her as gentlemanly as I can, and hand the letter to her. And she just reads it right there. You shoulda seen how many times her face changed, it was pretty funny. So then she finishes and starts chuckling – she's actually kinda buzzed herself – and is all 'so that's what he meant' all mysterious-like. So I of course ask her what she meant because hell, I just did her a service, she should do me one back. Now I bet she wouldn'ta told me under any other circumstances, but like I said – buzzed. She says that she thought she misheard him at the time, but Steve said 'I love you, Peggy, but she'll always be the most important', and that the woman who wrote this letter sounded like the 'she'. Then she asks me if I was the ass that you had referred to, and I say 'probably' and in then in that fancy British accent of hers 'mmm, I can tell'. So...what do you think?"

Moira blinked repeatedly, her weeping quieting for now. "Wh-what does that mean?"

"I literally just said- ...oy, you kill me, sis. It means that yeah, he had feelings for Peggy, but whether he had feelings for you or not, you were the most important woman in his life. That sounds like a good deal to me. And hell, the fact that Agent Carter admitted that so freely doesn't make her seem so evil, huh?"

Moira gaped and tugged on the ends of her hair. The pit in her gut shrunk to a manageable size, and a wave of sudden calm washed over her nerves, quelling the pain. "Yeah; a pretty good deal." She picked up the sketch nearest to her and hugged it to her chest. "I'm sorry for going off on you, you don't deserve it. I can't promise I'll be strong, but..."

"I get it. I know you'll fair a lot better than the rest of these weak broads, I can tell you that much." He poked her chin. "Hey, you know I'm always here to be your scratching post; more than ever now. Until I get a wife and kids, then you can rant to her."

She smiled again, smaller this time. "I think I'm going to sleep. For a couple of days, at least. You go remember what Brooklyn's like." She started gathering up all the papers.

"Are you gonna be okay? The city'll always be there; I'll stay with you 'til you're ready to-"

"No, really, I'm gonna be knocked out in a couple of minutes anyway. Crying my eyes out is hard work; s'why I hate doing it." She used the corner of her quilt to wipe her cheeks dry.

"Well...the guys from Steve's special squad are in town for a few days 'til they all go back home. I'm sure they'd like to meet you." He was trying so hard to get her out there; she had to give him credit for that.

"Maybe. I don't wanna be rude and all, but I wouldn't wanna make 'em uncomfortable if I start blubberin'." She positioned the papers neatly in the tin and put the lid on, pushing it back under the bed.

"Okay." He reached into his pocket and pulled out a neatly folded piece of paper. "But before you drift off, I think you should read this. From him. S'not finished." He placed it in her lap, kissed her temple, and got up, going out of the room. "We're all outside for now." He closed the door behind him, but Moira didn't feel alone. The note felt heavier than it should have.

She started to unwrap it, but stopped herself. She was kidding herself if she thought she could handle this; she would plunge back into the weepy, decrepit state she so loathed being in as soon as she saw the first letter in his handwriting. Besides, he would probably just tell her about his new day-to-day and the like; not that she didn't want to know, but it simply wasn't the right time. Besides, if what Michael had told her was true, then that's all she really needed to know. She slipped the letter under the lid and climbed back on her bed, settling under the quilt and resting her cheek on the pillow.

"You're so good, Steve. Too good." As soon as she closed her eyes, the sun shined behind her eyelids, and she watched as children pulled their parents down the boardwalk of Coney Island.

"_Goddammit, Buck!" She heard herself shout, following a smug-looking Bucky to the corn dog stand. Her arm around was scampy Steve, his complexion tinted green and his expression twisted in discomfort. "You ass, I can't believe you made him ride that. And you!" She flicked Steve on the back of the head. "I can't believe you let him convince you!" Steve attempted to speak, but he just groaned._

"_Hey, now; he got a great rush out of that." Bucky forked over a couple of coins for a juicy corn dog. "Since drinking will probably poison him and he'll die, this is the closest he got to a buzz."_

"_Mmm, yeah. And just like getting drunk, he upchucked pretty good. And now you're eating in front of him, how nice. Gimmie that, I haven't eaten all day." She made a grab for it, but Bucky swiftly ducked away and sent her barreling into nothing._

"_You guys are fighting over a corn dog now?" Steve rasped out, rubbing his neck. "We'll have to come here more often, huh?"_

_She started chasing Bucky around the area until she had to stop to catch her breath – during which time Bucky stuffed the entire thing in his mouth. "Really?! You're buying me a piece of jerky at the store just so you can give it to me as a consolation prize."_

"_Not if I eat it first," he teased, but with his mouth so full, his words were barely distinguishable._

_She took Steve by the shoulder and led him in the opposite direction. "C'mon, Scamp, we'll see if the souvenir shop has alka-seltzer or something."_

"_I'm fine. Just because you guys are really bad influences doesn't mean I can't recover quickly." He smiled up at her, squinting his eyes in the sunlight._

"_That doesn't make any sense!" Bucky shouted as he caught up to them, loosing a piece of dog that was hanging out of his mouth. Moira shook her head and hugged Steve to her side._

_A jovial man with a black fedora and mustache stopped them in their tracks. "What a group of misfits you kids make! Care to have a picture to commemorate your visit to Coney Island?_

_The three of them exchanged questioning looks. "Why not?" Steve said, putting one arm around Moira's waist as Bucky did the same. The man counted backwards on three. In the pause between two and one, Bucky shouted 'cheese', opening his mouth to reveal the mess of corn dog inside. Moira tried to keep her composure, but burst out laughing as the camera flashed. She caught sight of Steve's slight, but forced smile out of the corner of her eye once it was over._

"_Oh, Scamp. Not everything's like the Cyclone. You'll get better."_

_The look he gave her in reply made her realize that was a rather loaded statement. "Yeah," he said, smiling genuinely. "I will."_

The next day, the war came to America. And she proved to be right.


End file.
